Back to the Start
by She's a Star
Summary: As his final encounter with Lord Voldemort grows nearer, Harry begins to examine his relationships with the people he loves and the fact that their lives depend upon his actions.
1. One

**Back to the Start**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

**Author's Note:** Ahhh, this here fic. I started it awhile ago, and it feels like something different for me for some reason. Could be because it's not romance-centric, which is definitely a rarity among my work. The idea randomly popped into my head, and I got quite interested in it. This takes place at the very end of 7th year, and there isn't much of any back story at all explaining what's happened since OotP. I did this deliberately; I wanted to focus more on the people in Harry's life and his relationships with them rather than a well-defined plot. I also tried to make my writing style more distinctly Rowling-esque for this – there's even, true to form, a random 'twelve' reference in this chapter. Let's see who can catch it. ;)

I think this'll turn out to be around five chapters. And . . . I've done enough rambling, haven't I?

I hope you like it. J (And I just know that's a J. Darn Ff.N and its manipulative ways. It's supposed to be a smiley, dangit!)

_Nobody said it was easy._

_No one ever said it would be this hard._

-'The Scientist' by Coldplay

**One**

            It all began with a prophecy.

            Which, come to think of it, wasn't anything new. Harry was getting a bit sick of them, actually. Every time a prophecy came along, it meant nothing but danger and destruction.

            And this time was no exception.

            This time, as a matter of fact, was something special – danger and destruction increased tenfold.

            Straight from the mouth of Professor Trelawney herself, Harry would face Lord Voldemort in two days' time, armed with all the power necessary to destroy him, and one of them would die. He supposed it was a bit considerate of her, to reinstate the prophecy he'd found out about in his fifth year – at least that way he could be sure that there wasn't a chance that both of them could come out of it completely unscathed. Or, well, dead.

            The odds, he supposed, seemed more or less in his favour, but he really did wish that the prophecy had at least gone so far as to mention which one would be doing the dying.

            Otherwise, it was quite nerve-racking, and not just for him. Every time Hermione looked at him, she appeared to be holding back tears. Ron wasn't making sarcastic comments nearly as often, and Ginny was strangely silent.

            Maybe he should have been more scared, he thought uneasily as he witnessed his friends' behaviour. Maybe it was unnatural that he wasn't.

            But sometimes it seemed like he had lost so much that it didn't matter if he lived or died.

            That was selfish, of course; his life wasn't the only one in jeopardy. The fate of the entire wizarding world was in his hands. And yet somehow he felt almost relaxed. Maybe it was because he had simply surpassed extreme panic a long time ago. It was hard to tell, now.

            He had the weapon – the spell devised by some of the world's best witches and wizards solely to destroy Voldemort. All he had to do was say the words and it would be done.

            Of course, he couldn't speak that aloud or he knew he'd be reprimanded.

            "Now, Potter," Professor McGonagall had said sternly after he had first found out about it, "this isn't merely . . . saying a few words. You have to truly feel the power – allow it to possess you, and mingle with your own strength, and then . . . well, it should work," she'd finished, rather lamely.

            It was nice to know that he inspired such confidence in everyone.

            "It's not that we don't think you can do this," Lupin had told him last week over butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks. "It's just that it's a big responsibility, and some very advanced magic. If you don't feel prepared, there's still time to find another way . . ."

            "I'm ready," Harry had cut in, feeling exasperated. It got a bit old, to hear day after day just how much everyone was sure you'd wind up mucking things up somehow.

            But now he wasn't entirely sure. In forty-eight hours, he would be facing Voldemort for the last time. Everything came down to then.

            He repeated the words of the spell inside his head over and over, not daring to speak them aloud for some reason. McGonagall had told him time and time again that they would only become active against Voldemort, but Harry thought it best to be cautious anyway. After all, if everything that had been put into that spell - the spell that Dumbledore had given his life for so that he, Harry, could beat Voldemort – somehow got wasted, they'd be defenseless.

            All of this was going through his mind while he sat in the library, doing a bit of last-minute studying for the N.E.W.T.'s. He didn't have to, according to his teachers. As Flitwick had so delicately put it, "We certainly understand if you have priorities which must be placed above schoolwork."

            Professor Snape hadn't been quite as sympathetic.

            "You will show up to my class and take your exam, Potter, or expect a failing grade."

            Some things never changed. Harry figured that he may as well make an attempt at getting a decent mark, as it had been a struggle to get into Snape's N.E.W.T. class to begin with. But when Professor McGonagall had declared two years ago that she would help him become an Auror if it was the last thing she did, she clearly hadn't been making idle proclamations.

            Not that any of it would matter at all if he didn't triumph over Voldemort in two days' time.

            He frowned, tried to banish the thought from his mind, and focused on page two hundred and forty-six of his Potions textbook.

            "I still can't believe Snape's making you take the exam," remarked Ron from where he sat across the table. "What with all you've got going on. Right mental, he is."

            "Ron," Hermione said composedly, "I'm sure that Snape has his reasons-"

            Ron fixed her with a very skeptical look.

            "All right," said Hermione shortly. "Fine. He's a complete prat."

            "That's more like it," Ron said with an approving nod.

            Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her gigantic stack of History of Magic notes.

            Harry stared down at the page for a moment, but found he couldn't make any sense of the words on it. Deciding that Snape would simply have to live with the fact that Harry's top priority was not getting an O on his Potions exam, he slammed the book shut and stood up.

            Hermione and Ron both looked up at him, surprised. There was an underlying nervousness in their expressions, and Harry suspected that perhaps both of them half-expected him to go mental at any second.

            "I'm going out to the Quidditch pitch for a bit," he offered as an explanation, then gathered his things and left the library. He could hear Ron and Hermione murmuring quietly as he left.

            _Go on, then,_ he thought, a bit bitterly. _Keep muttering about how ickle Harry's not going to be able to defeat the Dark Lord._

            He began to increase his speed in an attempt to let off a bit of anger, and as a result slammed right into an oncoming student.

            "Sorry," he muttered brusquely, but stopped when he saw that it was Luna Lovegood he'd walked into.

            "That's perfectly all right," she replied, dreamily unaffected as always. "I expect you're a bit distracted because you'll be facing You Know Who so soon."

            Harry nodded, a bit awkwardly. He wasn't used to people speaking so openly on the subject, but he should have known that Luna would. She wasn't exactly one to beat around the bush.

            "I don't think you should worry," she continued airily. "After all, you've beat him before, and good always seems to win in the end. Have you seen the new edition of The Quibbler?"

            "No," Harry said.

            "Oh," she replied, unperturbed. "Well, Dad's put a little note in about you, and how you're sure to beat him. It's right after the exposé on Celestina Warbeck and Gilderoy Lockhart's secret wedding – a Peruvian Vipertooth performed the ceremony, did you know?"

            Harry shook his head, smiling a little. "I didn't know they could, actually."

            "Oh, yes," Luna said vaguely. "Well, bye then. Good luck."

            And she drifted off down the hall.

*

            It was warm outside, but the sun was completely absent. Perhaps it sensed the aura of foreboding that seemed to have surfaced lately, and decided it didn't want anything to do with what was to come. Harry, who glanced absently up at the sharp grey clouds, couldn't blame it.

            Clutching his Firebolt in his right hand, he neared the Quidditch pitch, which was, thankfully, empty. He didn't feel up to any encounters lately; not when everyone seemed to be staring at him in a mixture of awe and worry. It was strange that the entire school seemed to know about the prophecy in the first place. Secrets were never secrets for long at Hogwarts.

            Harry stared for a moment up at the Quidditch stands, and remembered the countless occasions where they had been filled with people, cheering for Gryffindor, for him. (Or booing, in the case of the Slytherins.) There wouldn't be any more Quidditch matches.

            He sighed, and was about to mount his broom when a sharp, scathing voice came from behind him.

            "Scared, are you, Potter?"

            Harry groaned and turned to face Draco Malfoy.

            "Annoyed, more like," he replied, deadpan. "Wonder why that is."

            "So you're finally going to defeat the Dark Lord," Malfoy said, scowling. "Of course. The precious prophecies all point to Harry Potter to end the war."

            "The war's not over, so long as scum like you are still around," Harry responded coldly.

            Malfoy glowered silently for a moment before saying, "I hope you do kill him."

            "What??" Harry asked, taken aback.

            Malfoy rolled his eyes and repeated, as though he were talking to a very young child, "I – hope – you – do – kill – him, Potter."

            "Why?" said Harry suspiciously.

            Malfoy laughed shortly. "The son of a bitch killed my parents." He paused. "Or have you forgotten that, Potter? I suppose they were too dark and dishonest to merit any of your sympathy."

            What Malfoy was saying was true, of course. Harry had never considered Malfoy's parents worth mourning, and with good reason. Over the years, Lucius Malfoy had done more terrible things than Harry could count. And yet somehow he felt uncomfortably guilty to hear it spoken aloud.

            "Thought you'd know what it's like, Potter," Malfoy said sarcastically. "As your parents are dead, too. My mother, she never did anything. They still tortured her for hours until she couldn't stand it anymore. And guess who got to watch?"

            Harry didn't know what to say. He was tempted to threaten to sic Ginny on him with the Bat Bogey Hex if he didn't go away, but at the same time, he couldn't very well tell him to shut up. Not when his mother had died, just the way Harry's own had.

            _It's different,_ he thought defensively. _His mum was wicked, and nasty. Even if she never killed anyone, she still . . ._

            "I hope you do kill him," Malfoy repeated simply, then turned and started off toward the castle.

            Harry didn't feel much like flying anymore. Instead, he sunk down onto the grass and found himself staring up into the sky until the rain started to fall.


	2. Two

**Back to the Start**

_By She's a Star_

**Author's Note: **There is one simple reason why it took me so long to get this up, and it's because I could not think of the name for a Divination professor before Trelawney. Ya see, originally, it _was_ Trelawney, but then I realized that she wasn't teaching at Hogwarts during the MWPP generation. Damn new OotP canon. Gets me every time. So now it gets to be Fastrada, who was, for all you fun fact-y people, the third wife of the emperor Charlemagne, and in Pippin gets to sing a nifty song about spreading a little sunshine. I really do love that play. J And, come to think of it, you can also blame it for the lack of updates, because we've got the whole insane amount of rehearsing thing goin' on. Alas, it'll all be over by this Sunday. Sniffle. And hi, rambling over here.

And I just know that that smiley face I made earlier is going to be a J.

It's a cruel world.

**Two**

            "I'm worried about him," Remus said, pouring the tea. A continuous cloud of steam danced lazily from the cup until it disappeared into the air. He added a bit of cream, set it down onto the table, and then began to pour his own cup.

            "With good reason. Then again, you always were the reasonable one."

            Remus laughed a little, and finished filling the second tea cup. He gingerly lifted the cup – it was hot against his fingers – and sat down at the table as well.

            "You can't say you're not worried," he accused lightly, staring down into his tea and wondering what message the leaves at the bottom might hold. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he had to laugh inwardly at his own foolishness. This was what he'd been reduced to – a terrified fool hoping for answers from the remnants of tea.

            Still, he couldn't quite blame himself.

            "Searching for signs in the tea leaves, Moony?" Sirius asked. Remus looked up to see him grinning.

            "You know me far too well," answered Remus, offering a tired smile in return.

            "No wonder you always got O's in Divination," said Sirius in mock-disgust. "Well," he added after a moment of consideration, "that and the fact that you were secretly snogging Professor Fastrada in the Astronomy Tower."

            Remus sighed in exasperation, but didn't bother to fight an indulgent smile. "I think it can safely be said that you never grew up properly."

            "Twelve years in Azkaban'll do that to you," Sirius replied lightly. He took a sip of his tea, then said, very matter-of-factly, "I'm worried as hell."

            "At least I'm not alone on that one."

            Sirius absently brushed a lock of black hair away from his eyes. "But I know he can do it. He's meant to."

            "I have no doubt of that," Remus said truthfully. "But if the spell somehow goes wrong . . ."

            "The spell's not going to go wrong, Moony," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "You've all been working on it for, what, a year?"

            "Ten months," Remus corrected.

            "Close enough," Sirius said dismissively. "Point is, it's going to work. So quit worrying."

            He took a sip of tea.

            "You know," Remus couldn't help but say, "complete inability to make proper tea and the fifteen year old teacher-snogging humor aside, I don't know what I'd do without you, Padfoot."

            Sirius stared at him for a moment, then opened his mouth to reply when the tea kettle suddenly went off, wailing with reckless abandon.

            "What on earth?" Remus muttered under his breath, bewildered. But the tea was finished already, and he knew he hadn't heated more water, and yet it still kept wailing, louder and louder—

            Remus sat up with a start and gazed wildly around the kitchen. The tea kettle sat on the stove, shrieking. Ah, yes. He must have dozed off waiting for the water to boil. One of the disadvantages to doing things the Muggle way, he supposed. Everything took so much longer. Of course, he hadn't helped matters any by falling asleep, but he couldn't help it – as the day grew closer, a good night's sleep was becoming more and more of a rarity.

            He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping it might soothe the throbbing in his temples, and the sound immediately ceased. Puzzled, he opened them again to see Ginny Weasley setting the kettle onto a back burner.

            "Thank you, Ginny," he said, forcing a smile.

            She turned and smiled back, a bit awkwardly. "Wouldn't want the house to burn down."

            "I'd imagine not," he responded. "So, to what do I owe this visit?"

            "I . . . have to ask you something," she replied, looking very unsure of herself. Remus suspected at once that this something most likely related to Harry somehow.

            "Of course," Remus said. "Tea?"

            "Sure," she said, and remained standing. "I'll get it."

            Remus stood. "You don't have to-"

            "It's okay," she cut in. "Really."

            "All right," he said, sinking down into the chair again. "The cups are in the left cupboard."

            He watched quietly for a moment as Ginny made her way around the kitchen, then chanced to ask, "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

            "Just . . . something," Ginny said, sounding a bit embarrassed. "Do you take sugar?"

            "No, thank you," he replied, and continued to watch as she poured a liberal amount of sugar into one cup.

            "It was nice of Professor McGonagall to let you leave Hogwarts grounds when exams are drawing near," he commented placidly.

            Ginny turned around and said, with utmost earnestness, "It was. I just explained to her that I needed to ask you something very important, and she let me leave."

            Remus raised an eyebrow.

            ". . . I may or may not have told her that it had to do with studying for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

            "Ah," Remus said, smiling. "How cunning of you."

            Ginny grinned back mischievously. "I'm a Weasley. It's what we do."

            "I've come to that conclusion over the years, yes."

            Ginny came over to the table and placed one cup of tea in front of him, taking the other for herself and sipping out of it.

            "Remus," she said after a moment, almost timidly.

            "Yes?"

            "How do you . . ." she bit her lip nervously. "Well, what I mean is, if you . . . uh . . .damn. Darn," she corrected immediately after casting a worried glance at him. "Say . . . you care about someone, a lot. And they're facing mortal danger very shortly, and you want to _tell_ them that you care, but it would be awkward beyond all belief. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm talking about Harry and me," she threw in with dry smile.

            Remus smiled back. "I hadn't the slightest idea."

            Ginny giggled, then grew solemn once more. "What do I do?"

            Remus found that he didn't even need a moment to think on it. "Well, in my opinion, you should tell him somehow, in whatever way feels the most comfortable to you. If you don't, you might never . . ." He sighed, then forced what he hoped passed as a pleasant expression onto his face. "I've lost many friends, and if I were given the chance to tell them just how much they meant to me, I would. I'm not sure that I ever did enough."

            Ginny stared sadly at him, then placed a hand lightly onto his.

            "I'm sorry," she said softly.

            He smiled tiredly back at her. "Thank you."

            "Thank you, too," she said. "For the advice, I mean. And I should probably head back to school," she continued, sighing. "It only takes so long to ask how Lethifolds reproduce."

*

            _Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap._

            "Could you stop that?" Hermione requested, annoyed, as Ron drummed his quill against the table.

            Ron looked up at her. "Huh?"

            It was clear that his mind was about as focused on the N.E.W.T.'s as hers was. Then again, Hermione couldn't blame him. Even though she worked her hardest not to show it, she was going out of her mind with worry.

            "Never mind," she sighed, and went back to her notes. Dates and names stared up at her in her own handwriting, and she tried not to think about how worthless it all might be in a few days' time. She had to be positive, for Harry.

            For her own sanity.

            "Your hair's falling out," Ron commented.

            Hermione looked up, alarmed. "What??"

            Her hands flew instinctively to her head, some stupid part of her expecting to find detached clumps of hair.

            "From the bun," Ron clarified, snickering a little.

            "Oh," Hermione said lamely, and notice that a few stray locks of hair were, in fact, hanging in her face rather than being pulled back. "Well, you could have just said that."

            Ron continued laughing to himself, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Honestly. He drove her crazy.

            Outside, the wind let out a despairing wail, and she shivered a little.

             "I don't imagine Harry's flying in that," she commented.

            Ron shrugged. "You never know. He might not even notice it." He sounded a bit uncomfortable. "You know how he gets sometimes."

            Hermione nodded, her concern rapidly increasing. "We should probably go outside and check on him," she told Ron, half expecting him to argue about going out in that weather.

            Instead, he stood up. "Okay."

            He surprised her sometimes.

*

            She stepped outside and the rain immediately began to whip her hair around her face, but she paid it no mind. Instead, she took a few steps forward and paused, not sure if she dared go any closer. She wasn't sure that he would care to speak to her anymore, and really, she wasn't too eager to maintain any sort of relationship with him either.

            But now . . . after what was happening the day after tomorrow . . .

            And he looked so insignificant, lying there in the grass – soaked to the bone, no doubt. She wondered what he was thinking about, or if he was thinking at all. If she were in his position, she imagined she would have simply been numb to everything by that point.

            But Harry was different. He was a hero.

            She watched him, and to her displeasure, found tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, she hoped that he didn't notice her now. Her seemingly nonstop crying had annoyed him, she was sure. Things were better with Michael – he didn't mind it so much. He listened to her when she talked about Cedric, instead of trying to pretend it had never happened.

            Things were better.

            It was a bit foolish, to come all this way and not even work up the courage to talk to him. And yet as the tears began to stream down her face, she found that she'd like nothing more than to be back in her hotel room in Hogsmeade with a warm cup of tea and a book. Something to distract her, so maybe she could pretend that everything might not change in two days' time.

            _Go on, Cho,_ she lectured herself angrily. _At least tell him good luck._

            But it wasn't the sort of thing, she decided, that someone could just say.

            So instead she impatiently brushed the tears away and stepped back into the horseless carriage.

            One last glance informed her that he hadn't moved. He was too still, and it frightened her. The last time someone she'd cared about had been too still, he'd been dead.


End file.
